


All That Remains

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grieving, Grór Is One Tough Cookie, Hurt/Comfort, I Have A THOUSAND Other Stories To Do, Mention Of Copious Drinking, Why am I doing this?, survivor's guilt, tough love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8148637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains
Summary: The brother of a newly killed King, the grieving father of a dead son, the caretaker of a quiet grandson in mourning, Grór is no stranger to grief after the Grey Mountains and the cold-drake that killed his father and other elder brother over a century earlier. Yet, he cannot leave his brother's surviving grandchildren, knowing that both he and his cousin are old and will not survive long enough to see them to adulthood. There is one who can help, but he needs to break out of his own sorrows and it is clear he cannot do it alone.





	

It had been some years since he had last seen Farin or his sons. He had not seen Fundin, but had been there to witness his cousin howl like he was dying when he was told that his elder son, his firstborn, had perished in the battle. Since then, Farin had become withdrawn, unable to respond to anyone for some days until finally he was able to see through his grief. 

Grór had lost his own son, Náin. His only son. The boy he had loved from the moment Sjila had told him she was with child. He, himself, had wept and grieved, but was able to console himself with the fact that his beloved son had joined his mother and the fact that Dáin, thank Mahal, had not followed his father. He had slain many Orcs and trolls despite being only _just_ battle-ready at barely thirty-two years of age. 

Thráin had lost Frerin. Farin had lost Fundin. He had lost Náin. And nobody knew where Thráin was or it would seem that Thrór had lost his son, too. Maybe he had. The only two of Durin's line, who _hadn't_ lost a son in the battle were Fundin and Gróin.

 The problem was this. With Thráin gone and the king and the two eldest Dwarf-lords of the line dead, the Queen dead, the princess unable to respond to anything at all, and he and Farin returning to stone soon, it left Gróin as the one who would have to provide advice, protection and aid to Thorin. And he spent his days drinking ale like water and refusing to speak to anyone.

Grór couldn't stay in the Blue Mountains forever. He had a boy to provide advice, protection and aid to and that would only be in the Iron Hills. Dáin's mother needed him now, more than ever after the loss of her husband and it was cruel to stay away from her.

He would have to go to Gróin. But he didn't know whether he would let him in or turn him away.

* * *

It was his fault. There was no doubt of that. Had he been more careful, he wouldn't have gotten knocked to the ground. Had he not got knocked to the ground, he wouldn't have nearly gotten himself skewered. Had that not happened, Fundin wouldn't have taken the knife out of his stomach and slit the throat of the thing that wanted to kill him. He could have survived, had it not been for him.

_'Don't leave me, please, don't leave me!'_

But he had. It had been so quick. He could still feel the touch of his brother's fingertips on his left cheek as he tried, in vain, to stop him crying.

_'I'm not dead yet.'_

But he was now. He could remember only a jumble of words, Fundin's last.

_'Look after my sons.' '_

_I love you.'_

_'Look after Da.' '_

_Please don't cry.' '_

_Make up with Thrór.' '_

_I'm serious, don't look at me like that.'_

_Well, at least look after the prince and princess.'_

_'_ _I'll tell Mammy you love her for you.' '_

_Shh.. I don't want the last thing I see to be you in tears.'_

_'_ _I'd die for you a thousand times over, that's why. You could live to be nine hundred years old and you'd always be my little brother.'_

His actual last words were stuck in his mind. _'Keep fighting. Don't you_ dare _let this be in vain.'_

And so he had. And he _had_ survived. People had come to see him. He had turned them all away, even his father. It had been his fault his father's firstborn had died.

He drank a lot, perhaps more than he should have, but it helped him get up in the morning. The problem was that the drinking made him angry and the ones who bore the brunt of his anger were the boys who had not only lost Fundin, but now had an angry, drunken uncle raging at them. He hated this part of himself and, so, he avoided them. Which wasn't fair on his wife, but he felt it to be better for the lads.

He took another gulp from his ale bottle and lay his head back. He had no thought of getting up today.

* * *

 

He was surprised when the door was answered, not by Gróin's wife, but by Farin. "Is he here?"

"Yes. He's not getting up today according to my daughter in law. I was going to try and persuade him otherwise..."

"Can I go on?"

"Of course. I've got grandchildren to try and dress. She's resting."

Grór didn't blame Gróin for not wanting to face the world. When the cold-drake had killed his elder brother and father all those years ago, he had done precisely the same. Borin had gone with Thrór and he still slightly resented this, even now. He hadn't even stayed in contact very well. Some loving uncle.

He found the door to the big bedroom and knocked loudly.

"Go away, Da."

"It's Grór."

"Piss _off,_ Grór!"

Charming. He tried again. He was rebuffed with suggestions as to what he might do with himself, too. He opened the door and was met with two angrily glaring bright blue eyes.

"I told you to _fuck off!"_

"No, you told me to go and fuck _myself."_

"So do that. Leave me alone." Gróin pulled his blankets over himself and ignored him.

Grór stepped forward and swiftly pulled the blankets off him. It being a cold autumn morning, this was not met well. There was much swearing and shivering and the younger Dwarf reached for a bottle of ale, drank deeply and curled up. Grór went to the bedside table and took the bottle. Going to the window, he tipped the contents out. Gróin heard. He leapt out of bed, poked his head out of the window and reacted with such dismay that any passersby would have thought his firstborn child had been tipped out the window, not cheap, strong ale.

"It's for your own good, my lad." Grór said sternly. "You've been acting this way for nearly two months."

"I'm not your lad. Your son is dead. Hundreds of Dwarves lost their sons upon _your_ brother's whims!"

Grór hadn't exactly been sure of the battle. He had been infuriated, of course, that the orcish filth had been desecrating Moria, admiring their míthril, but he'd known that Thrór's heart wasn't set on nobility. It was set on riches. The gold sickness had turned him into something he was not and it had cost him his life, his grandson's life.. So many lives. So much grief. That's what this was. The time for tenderness was over now, though. Soon, he would be back home. Farin wouldn't live forever and nor would he, for that matter. He had to help Gróin for his great-nephew's sake.

And so, he would.

"Yes, he is dead. _Hundreds_ of Dwarves are grieving, just like you are, but they are not lying in bed til noon, drinking Autumn's Sun like it's the only beverage on this earth safe to drink and leaving their wives and elderly fathers to look after the children."

_"You're_ not grieving though, are you, you stonehearted dick? You shed _one_ tear for each of the members of our family who died and here you are, acting all solemn and serious, telling me _I'm_ grieving. But not _you."_ Gróin moved closer, almost smiling. "I bet you've got a list of the line and every time someone dies, you cross off their name. Do you want to be the last one alive, Grór? Is that why you do not grieve?"

In response, Grór struck him across his face. He wasn't in the habit of slapping people, but it was a way to get drunkards to listen. "Now, listen here," he said lowly, pointing a stern finger at him. "You've had far too much to drink, so I shan't pay heed to your words. But you will listen to me and you will listen _now."_

"And how do you intend to make me?" Gróin demanded. "If I wanted, I could chuck you through the wall. You can't make me listen."

"Oh, I can." Grór said mildly.

"I'd like to see you try. You're older than my Da. In fact, I bet you're older than Maha- AHHHHHH!!!"

The shriek, which had brought Farin in a panic, apparently certain he was about to outlive yet another son, was due to the fact Grór had grabbed Gróin's arm, forced him to his knees and swiftly grabbed both arms into a rather painful locked position. "I'm actually three years _younger_ than your father, you know."

_"Get off me!"_

"No," said Grór harshly. "This conversation should have happened _long_ ago. You _can't_ keep living this way. Your father and I are old and overrun with grief. We aren't going to be around much longer. I'd say five years and that's it, we'll be dead and gone."

"I hope I go with you." Gróin said. He was taut, unused to being so cramped. "Let me go!"

"No. You can't hope to go with us. What about my brother's grandchildren, your future king and possible queen? What about _your_ children? What about _Fundin's_ little boys?"

This had an affect. Gróin stilled and Grór could almost feel him moving his eyes away from where his father stood.

"What about his little boys?" Grór repeated. "One of them has his eyes. You remember his eyes. The gem-blue eyes of our line."

Gróin started shaking his head. Grór noticed a matted braid in the flaming red shock of hair that looked like it had been rubbed up and down until the fine strands started spilling out. "Don't talk about him..Don't you _dare_ talk about him."

"Why? Did he do something wrong during the battle?"

_"Shut up!"_ Gróin roared. "Of _all_ the people on this earth, _you_ have _no right_ to talk about the wrongs of brothers. _Your_ brother wanted me to sacrifice my _toddler_ for _Moria!_ _Damn Moria!_ I wish I had never gone! If I had betrayed my king and kin I would still have a brother!"

Farin, Grór noticed, became much more alert. His eyes, the same shade of blue as nearly all of the Deathless' descendents, were locked on his youngest son who of a sudden looked both younger and older than his one hundred and twenty-eight years. "What do you mean?" Farin asked. "Why would you still have a brother?"

There was no answer. Something happened in that battle, that much was clear. "Did he run?" Grór asked softly. "Did he run into a sword?"

"No."

"I heard he had a stab wound." Farin said quietly. "One that was fatal and took a long time to bleed out. It was painful for him and..as it was fatal.. Did you kill him? A mercy kill."

Gróin laughed bitterly. "No. He would never ask that of me, would he? All my life, he sought to _protect_ me."

"What happened?" Grór asked. "Tell us."

"No."

All the fierce anger, all the fury, had seeped from him now. Grór could feel the strength that held him up leave his tall frame so he slumped as though weakened after a fight. "No what, lad?"

"Nothing happened."

Farin crossed the room and crouched in front of his secondborn. He moved his head until he had apparently gained eye contact and said; "Gróin, my son, tell me what killed my _firstborn_ , my _eldest_ , your _brother."_

There was a lengthy silence. Grór had often heard (from Thrór), that their cousin had a soul of iron even if it was a bit rusty at times (usually where his sons were concerned by all accounts [usually Thrór's].). He saw it now, how his expression changed from worried to stern, how the iron spirit Thrór had told him of hardened his eyes and made him somewhat difficult to want to lie to.

Finally, Gróin lowered his head in defeat. "It was me," he whispered. _"I_ killed him."

Farin's expression did not change, though his eyes flickered to Grór's as the two kinsmen shared one common decision about this confession.

It was impossible.

"And how did you do that?" Farin asked as though Gróin had admitted to breaking an ornament rather than his father's heart. Of course, they both knew Gróin couldn't have done so, but sometimes it was best to humour people until you could help them properly.

"They _stabbed_ him," Gróin said with a great tremble in his voice. "They tore through his armour with this long curved knife and.. It was in his belly, so..He knew it wasn't good news, but he told me he'd be fine if he was careful, so I made him hide and stayed close to him and fought over him - Gods, he _promised_ he'd be fine - and of a sudden, all went quiet and I heard this orcish snarl and I looked around to see and it was.." Gróin paused to take a deep breath. "That scum threw down the king's head and I wanted to leave Fundin, to _help_ , but.. I should have been more careful, should have looked around, known what was there.. an orc, a big one, struck me down. I had a son hidden on me, one of the boys had ran onto the battlefield to help.. Silly boy, he's only just _sixteen_.. So, I had him and wanted to keep him safe. He was in my armour, but I _knew_ how easily it could be torn through and when this orc tried to finish me with its spear, I grabbed it, holding it above where my wounded child lay. All I could hear was screams and roars of war and the time just dragged on forever and my strength deserted me and I thought that if I was going to die, I was _not_ taking my secondborn with me, so I pulled it to my face and let go."

Farin turned pale listening to this, but said nothing. His expression was the same, but Grór noticed tears forming.

"Next thing, Fundin's there and _he's_ stabbing this creature even though its throat had been slit. And then I recognised the knife, knew what he'd done. There were Dwarves running past us, going to help Thorin defeat the last of the orcs still alive, no doubt, but I didn't _care_ about the war any more. All I cared about was trying to make my brother stay alive, but.. As soon as the orc slid from his grasp, he fell to the ground. My big brother, my friend from birth was _dying_ because _I was too careless_ to _look around_ , because I made it so he _had_ to protect me. I stayed with him until he took his last breath." The last sentence brought sobs of such size that Gróin's body shook violently.

Grór saw no reason to hold him as he had and released him. Gróin wrapped his arms around himself and curled up, his head bowed so his long, unkempt bright locks pooled on the floor. He had grown to be well over five feet in height, but Grór had never seen anyone look so small. He took his shoulders and rubbed them to alleviate the tension.

"I'm sorry, Adad. I'm sorry for all I've cost you, I'm so sorry.."

Farin's expression changed. He took his last son into his arms and hugged him so fiercely that the lad gasped a bit for air. "You did _not_ cost me," he said firmly. "Get that idea _out_ of your head!"

"My birth cost Amad, my survival cost my brother." Gróin wept, slightly muffled, into his shoulder.

"Neither of those things are _your_ fault, my little topaz." Farin said. "Your birth was a great comfort to me and now you are more precious to me than ever before. You said yourself that you both knew that the injury might not be survivable. _Listen_ to me, please." He carefully disentangled himself and cupped his secondborn's face in his rather withered hands. "No mother wants to outlive her child. Given the choice, she would have chosen _you_ to live, not herself. She cherished you from the moment we knew you were coming. _Stop_ blaming yourself for it, my son. And Fundin.. Well, he was your elder brother." Farin smiled sadly. "I saw Thrór after Frór was killed by the cold-drake. Trust me on this; no loving elder sibling wants their little brother or sister dead before them. Have you been blaming yourself all this time?"

Gróin nodded and used his father's sleeve to wipe away his tears. Farin barely succeeded in suppressing the urge to roll his eyes and produced a hanky from his pocket and presented it to his youngest son.

"Of all the ways," Farin said, "Fundin would have much preferred going out knowing he'd done all he could to keep you alive and well. I know you're hurting, sweetling, but you can't be like this. He wanted you to _live."_

"I don't know _how_ any more."

"Start small," Farin said. "Do something you'd like to do as long as it's not staying in this room drinking that _awful_ ale."

Gróin looked almost offended on the ale's behalf. _"I_ like it."

"That's because you've been drinking it so long, your taste buds have gone askew."

"Are you _really_ going to die soon?" Gróin asked abruptly.

Farin shot Grór a long-suffering look. "Not any time _soon,_ I should hope." He answered. "Unfortunately, I'm not as young as I was. Grór is right, you _need_ to be able to counsel and.. Well, it's my own fault really. I assumed with Queen Ørla, Princess Signý, Náin, Thráin and your brother that there would be plenty, but two of them are dead and Thráin is gone. Queen Ørla died of heartrage, Princess Signý is catatonic, understandably, and that leaves you. I haven't all that many years left, though I will try to live as long as I can and Grór is in my position too. We need you to learn to counsel."

"I mightn't be any good at it." Gróin said.

"I think otherwise. I remember you having a rather good mind for politics." Farin hugged him again. "I know it seems daunting, but, please, try for me, sweetling."

"What about the honouraries? The lords the king chose."

"They are not _kin._ You are. You wouldn't betray them and a betrayal now would destroy the house of Durin, I'm not asking you to forgive my brother, but I do ask that you forgive the prince and princess their relation to him." Grór said, leaning forward to look him in his eyes. They were tinged with red, sore from tears.

"I didn't want him to die." Gróin choked. "I know we had words, but his death was the _last_ thing-"

"We know that," said Farin. "Of course you didn't, especially not the way he did. But it's happened, it's finished. Thrór wasn't himself at the time and you had every reason to want to protect your children. They were words, not actions and had he been himself, he would have most likely agreed with you."

Gróin was silent in thought for several moments and finally nodded. "Was I wrong to fight by my brother's side?"

"No," said both Grór and Farin.

"I believe Thorin fought over Frerin after he perished too," Grór said in a gentler tone. "Thrór had many warriors and years of expertise, none of which you had. Had you not been by your brother's side, his sons would be alone in the world but for your wife and there would be no one for Thorin. You did nothing wrong that day, I promise you."

Gróin half-smiled sadly. "I am sorry. Can you forgive me for all I said?"

"They were words spoken in grief. I won't accept an unneeded apology." Grór answered somewhat gruffly. 

When he left, fifteen days later with his grandson staying closeby as if in fear of losing another family member, Grór felt somewhat hopeful for his brother's grandchildren. He'd done all he could and knew his cousin and his remaining son would do so as well as they could.  
Now, to teach his grandson the art of boar-rearing.

 

 


End file.
